Rexanne Becnel (2 page)

Wynne shook her head, and a shiver snaked up her spine. “I cannot quite say. A man—actually, several men—are somewhere in our forest. What they want and who they are is a mystery to me. But they—” She broke off. To say they frightened her was not quite accurate, she realized. They unnerved her.
He
unnerved her, whoever he was.

“We saw no one out of the ordinary,” Druce said. “Trystan ab Cadawg of Penybont Village was fishing on the far bank of the Waddel. And old Taffy was checking his traps.” He paused, searching his mind. “No,” he finally said. “No one else. Where were you when they came to you?”

“In the low meadow. Almost to Crow’s Moor. I was picking the earliest curls of fern and had planned to search for devil’s-apple. Mandrake,” she clarified.

He grimaced at her mention of that feared root. “Do you still feel these men?”

Wynne forced herself to become still. She grasped her amulet as she exhaled a long breath and closed her eyes, willing away the everyday sound of the manor grounds. She listened to her own breathing and tried to hear the steady rhythm of her heart. After a moment she raised her face to stare at Druce.

“ ’Tis different from anytime before,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “I do not sense him, and yet I know he’s there.”

Druce considered that. “Maybe he is harmless. Is it only the one man?”

“No, ’tis a group. I’m almost certain. But only one of them comes to me.”

“Maybe they mean us no harm. Maybe they are just passing through, bound to one or the other of the villages in the forest.”

Wynne left it at that. As she hurried off to her own tasks, she hoped Druce was right, and yet a part of her knew he was not. This man had come to Radnor Forest for a reason. He was not simply passing through. Yet with nothing to go on, she could only sit and wait. Druce promised to check the area around the manor before he and his brother and friends returned home to Radnor Village, but Wynne suspected he would find no one.

She sighed as she sought out Rhys and Madoc. What would be, would be. She believed that, and life had proven it to be true over and over again. She would face whatever threat this man brought when it came to pass—if indeed it was a threat at all. But at the same time she would prepare herself and all the children. They had their hiding places. They had their own peculiar weapons.

And perhaps her fears were unfounded. Perhaps it was only another Norman holy man come to purge the Welsh of their lingering pagan practices. Wynne smiled at that thought. How she would love to terrorize some pompous priest or bishop with a mysterious fire that burned green instead of yellow and red, or purge him with a sweet wine laced with fairy cap.

Feeling better, she broke into a run, working off her nervous energy. It was a beautiful day, unmarred by clouds or rain. The five orphans she raised were healthy and strong. They had fresh meat, thanks to the villagers, and Radnor Forest provided them with everything else they needed. What more could she want from life?

“ ’Tis the land of dragons, they say.”

“And of witches.”

Cleve FitzWarin heard the mutterings of his men, but he refused to acknowledge them. They’d camped last night on the eastern side of Offa’s Dyke, the steep-sided ditch that marked the border between England and Wales. All day they’d ridden deeper into the wild hills of Wales, and all day his men had become increasingly uneasy. Even Cleve could not totally dismiss their apprehension. The hills rose higher, turning now into craggy outcroppings and ancient mountains. This was the home of the irrepressible Welsh folk—the people who’d sent King Henry home a beaten man with a crushed army. And here Cleve was, venturing into the very heart of Wales with but seven men behind him. God, but he must be a complete fool.

No, not a complete fool. Just one determined finally to win lands of his own.

Behind him he sensed his men growing more and more anxious. He pulled his tall charcoal-gray destrier to a halt and leaned forward in the stirrups. The men clattered to a halt around him.

“What now?”

“By Saint Osyth’s soul—”

A sharp wind whistled around a craggy granite boulder, sounding for all the world like a woman’s high-pitched keening, and all the muttering ceased. Wales was surely a cursed land, Cleve decided, not for the first time that day. All the tales of ghosts and dragons, of heathen folk as wild as any animals, which he’d dismissed as the talk of fools, seemed suddenly believable. And yet, ghosts or no, dragons and heathens notwithstanding, he’d come here for a purpose, and he’d not leave until he’d succeeded. He pushed his woolen hood back and shook his head in irritation.

“We’ll camp there,” he called to his huddled men above the sound of the wind. “There looks to be a stream past those elms where it’s low and wet. John, Marcus, see to a fire and food. Henry and Roland, see to the horses. Richard, you, Derrick, and Ned scout the area.”

The men scattered to their tasks, but Cleve remained on his mount, leaning forward, squinting toward the mist-shrouded mountain ahead of them. His horse stamped once, then twice, on the rutted cart track, but still Cleve stared, looking and listening for something he could not name. He’d been troubled these last two hours and more. He was troubled still.

Sir William had been vague. He’d spoken of a place southwest of Stokesley Castle, a forest called Radnor. But he’d not remembered the specific village name, and Cleve had found that there were several within the forest. Nor had Sir William even known the woman’s Welsh name. Yet now, maudlin fool that he was, he had sent Cleve to find the child of their union. Angel was the name he’d called her. But so far Cleve had found no one who remembered a woman going by that name. And so he yet searched.

Cleve grimaced to himself, disgusted once more by the history of the English in Wales. He’d been more than glad seven years ago not to have been a part of King Henry’s luckless campaign against the Welsh. His own mother had been Welsh, and though he and she had always lived on English soil, she had kept both the language and the culture of Wales alive in her only child. At her death the English father he’d seen but twice had grudgingly arranged a minor position for his bastard son, Cleve, in a decent household. Through the grace of God—and the intervention of Lady Rosalynde and both her husband and father—Cleve had risen above his lowly beginnings. Yet he’d avoided the war against Wales, even though it had offered a chance for him to win recognition and reward. Something in him simply had not wanted to make war on his mother’s people.

Now it appeared that his Welsh heritage, which had always been considered shameful, would be his good fortune, for it was Cleve’s knowledge of the Welsh tongue—rusty though it was—that had given him this opportunity.

Were it not for the promise of reward, Cleve would have dismissed Sir William Somerville’s odd mission as foolish beyond belief. To find a child, sired in wartime to some Welshwoman, and if it was a boy bring it back, was a fool’s quest by anyone’s standards. And yet, for the promise of lands—a castle and demesne of his own—Cleve would have searched out the devil himself and wrested him back to England.

As if to underscore his black thoughts, the wind whipped more viciously than ever, lifting the ends of his heavy wool mantle and causing his destrier to start in alarm.

“Be still, Ceta. ’Tis naught but the wind.” But it was a formidable wind, Cleve thought, cold and relentless, just like the land.

With a sharp curse he hauled Ceta around and followed the trail his men had left. They would sleep and regroup. Tomorrow they would find this place called Radnor, and one by one he would investigate each and every household there. They would trade their good English coin for information if necessary. And they would purchase the rare herbs and potions several of Sir William’s daughters had demanded he search out for them. But above all else they would find the child that Sir William so desperately sought.

Though Cleve did not truly wish to steal the child from its mother, he was nevertheless prepared to do just that if it proved necessary. He would not forgo his prize for one woman’s stubbornness. And after all, Sir William’s bastard would become heir to all the Somerville name had to offer. Sir William was adamant about that. No doubt his sons-in-law were disappointments to him, Cleve speculated. But whatever Sir William’s reasons for wanting his bastard son, one thing was certain: the child would never suffer the lack of family, name, or property as other bastards did.

As Cleve did.

No, any pain the child and mother might feel on parting would swiftly heal in the light of all the boy would gain.

And in the process he, too, would gain, Cleve reminded himself. He would win the hand of Sir William’s youngest daughter—Edeline was her name, he remembered. More important, however, he would win the dowry lands that came with the girl. He would be lord of his own lands and people, and his children would be born to those same lands. There would be no bastards from him, he vowed, only sons and daughters, raised in the security of their rightful home.

He dismounted and turned back to stare up at the mists that hid the mountain peaks from view. Somewhere in these vast, forbidding hills lay the key to all he wanted in life. Nothing and no one was going to prevent him from gaining it.

W
YNNE AWOKE WITH A
start. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she gasped for breath as she lay there on her straw truckle bed. Had she been dreaming? Yet she could not recall any dreams, certainly not anything that could have caused this sudden, fearful thudding in her chest, nor the dampness of her palms and brow.

She sat up, trying to focus in the dark room. Was it one of the children? She rose at once and padded on bare feet from her small chamber to the fireplace, where she quickly lit a candle. Then up the steep stairs she went on sure feet, to the nursery she’d fashioned beneath the broad eaves in a loft above the hall.

Once she was in the low-ceilinged room, she moved slowly from bed to bed, letting the light fall briefly on each of the children’s faces. Bronwen and Isolde slept side by side in a shared bed, the one sprawled sideways, wrapped in the wool coverlet, the other curled in a ball, shivering from the cold. With a small smile Wynne tugged the cover from Isolde and tucked Bronwen into its warmth.

How different the two girls were, she thought fondly.

Her niece, Isolde, with her dark hair and flashing eyes, was a little tyrant at times. She was Welsh through and through, just like her mother, Wynne’s sister, had been. Bronwen meanwhile had the coloring of her father. So far that had not been a problem, but Wynne feared the girl’s strikingly fair hair would forever mark her an English bastard.

With a sigh she turned to the boys on the other side of the room. As she expected, Madoc and Rhys faced each other on the truckle pallet they shared. It was as if they plotted mischief even in their sleep, yet Wynne could not deny that they looked more like angels right now than the little devils she knew they could be. With their dark, curling hair and equally dark eyes, they would no doubt cause many a heartache in the years to come.

Then there was Arthur. What was she to do with Arthur? He was already so wise that it was frightening, and yet there was a sensitive side to his nature that worried her. Though the other four children made allowances for his dreamy inclinations, she knew he would always be one easily taken advantage of, especially by other boys.

But what could she do? She had willingly undertaken to raise the five of them, five wonderful, exasperating six-year-olds who would not be placated by her explanations about their absent parents forever.

Though the invading English had ultimately been routed and driven from Wales, they yet survived here in the blood of their bastard offspring. One day she must explain it to the children, and yet it was still hard for her to understand herself. How did you explain to a child about war? About rape? How did you make a little child understand that your father had not created you with love and respect, but with hatred and violence? How did you explain that your father and his people were the worst enemies you would ever have?

She suppressed a shiver, then reached out to cup Arthur’s cheek. He was warm and so sweet. They all were, and she loved them as fiercely as if they truly were her children. Just the feel of his soft breath was reassuring, and she swallowed the uneasiness that had plagued her the whole day through and on into the night. Everything would be all right. She was sure of it. Whoever it was who trespassed upon her forest would not be there forever. He would wreak whatever mischief he might be planning, but he would not disrupt their lives for long.

Hers was a race that had survived many a foreign onslaught. Besides, it was not an army encamped in her woods. She knew that instinctively. A few men were no real threat.

Perhaps they would be gone by sunset today.

Cleve squatted beside a narrow brook, watching a deep, still pool just downstream from him. Someone was coming, and his naturally suspicious nature prompted him to observe the traveler a little while before revealing himself.

With a remarkable absence of sound a man picked his way down a barely visible trail. On his shoulders he bore a small, oddly made boat. The Welsh called it a coracle, Cleve remembered. It was an awkward-looking craft woven of willow and covered with leather.

The man was alone, which was good, and he appeared to carry only a small dagger in a leather sheath strapped to his thigh. When he put down his light craft, Cleve was surprised to see, however, that he was an old man, a graying grandfather come to do some fishing. This was a good sign, for an old fellow like this would surely know all the goings-on in these parts. Cleve eased his hand from the carved bone hilt of his own dagger.

“Good morrow, father,” he called, rising to his full height. The old man started and then warily drew back. But Cleve smiled and walked forward with no threat in his demeanor. “What manner of fish do you seek this fine day?”

The old man stared at him as if he were an oddity never before seen, and Cleve frowned. Was his Welsh so bad as to be unintelligible?